4 comments/ 4364 views/ 1 favorites When Thugz Cry Ch. 01 By: Scott_Free This story is neither pure fact, nor pure fiction. It is a purposely skewed retelling of the events of my youth. Events and people have been intentionally changed to protect myself, and the other people involved; both the guilty and the innocent. It is not meant to be a confession, or an inspiration; although it could be interpreted as either. These events took place Detroit, in the early 1990's. It seems like it took place in another world. It was a very different time. Gangs and cocaine ruled the streets of Tha D, and the police were mostly just trying to keep everything within Detroit's borders, and keep it from spilling over into the surrounding suburbs. This is life how I saw it. It is gritty and raw, and if you are offended my strong language, drug use, sex, or criminality, just stop reading now. I've never actually read a non-erotic story on this site, and I figure that few of you people will read this, either. I plan this to be a full-length book in the near future, and I'm just flexing my writing muscles, and trying to take my mind back over 20 years, and to briefly recapture my mind state. It is still in a rough draft, please excuse any typos. I guess that is enough bullshit disclaimers and rambling. When thugz cry, we don't shed tears, We shed blood. Do you still wanna be a thug? --Tupac Shakur * The cop's flashlight beamed bright through my window, causing my pupils to contract, resulting in a total loss of night vision. I knew that they did this on purpose to disorient suspects, as well as to check the car quickly for weapons, or drug paraphernalia. The cop had pulled out of a drug store parking lot behind us a half mile back, and presumably ran our plate. My bodyguard, Bear, had urged me to stay calm, and pull over when he flips his lights on. There was almost no chance that the fucking pigs wouldn't pull us over. It was 4:30am, and I was a white guy driving a car with a black passenger. To the reasoning of the cops, this meant one thing: a drug buy. Sure enough, the cop had flipped on his red and blues, and I pulled to the curb slowly, keeping my hands on the wheel, where the pig could see them. This was not unexpected, and both Bear and I had been trained in traffic stops by our homie, Bitch Killa. We were instructed never to run from the cops, no matter what we had done, no matter what we had on our person, or in the car. There were to be no exceptions on this rule. The Gangta Mack Crips had rules for everything. These were the rules for traffic stops. 1. Pull over. Never, ever, ever run from the cops. Keeps your hands on the wheel, and no sudden movements. Sudden movements spook police. 2. Keep your fucking mouth shut. Be polite to the cops, but tell them absolutely no details about anything. 3. When they take you to jail, and they will, go quietly, because resisting arrest will get your ass beat, or get you killed. 4. When they question you, KEEP YOUR FUCKING MOUTH SHUT! They know that you are guilty of something, and if you run your mouth, sooner or later they will trap you into some bullshit, and then you might be stuck. 5. Ask for your lawyer. Call the Jew, and if he's not there, say nothing. 6. The more that you violate these rules, the more likely that you will go to prison. These rules were memorized by all of us, and we actually fucking role played getting pulled over. It must have worked, because I should have been way more nervous than I was, given all the shit that we had in the car. The cop made a twirling motion with his finger, to signal me to roll down my window. I slid the power window down on the 1979 Cougar RX-7. It was an immense hulk of a car, with a good engine. It was functional, but not fancy; exactly what we needed. "License and registration please." The cop didn't look overly jumpy, but his had still rested on the huge revolver that he carried on his hip. I saw a second flash light start in the back seat, on the passenger side. The light flowed over Bear, and the second pig drew his gun. "He's gotta gun, Frank." The second cop leveled his revolver at Bear's head, and the cop at my window drew his gun, and pointed it at me. Apparently riding down the street with a sawed-off shotgun in your lap is illegal in Detroit. I froze, my left hand on the wheel, my right hand on the sun visor, where my license, and the registration to the car were clipped. Bear's hands were on the dashboard, where they had been since the cops flashed their lights. He knew that we were riding heavy, and that we would be ok, as long as a jumpy cop didn't blow our faces off. "We're not moving." I said calmly. "He won't reach for the gun. Everything is cool here, officer." "Both of you, put your fucking hands out the windows. Now, shitbags!" I complied, with my license and registration still in my hands. Bear had his hands out of the passenger side, and looked as calm as if we were just sitting at a red light. I have to admit that I was a little afraid. I knew that we were one mistake away from being on the news as the next police shooting victims. "Driver, I want you to reach into the car slowly with your left hand, and remove the keys from the ignition." He sounded a little less excited after we had our hands where he could see them. His partners light illuminated the ignition, as I fumbled, cross armed, trying to remove the keys. Finally, I held them out the window towards the officer. "Drop em." His partner still sounded really tense. I dropped the keys, and the cop on my side used his flashlight hand to open my door. His partner did the same. It was a scripted dance that they performed thousands of times in their careers. I just hoped that it wouldn't end in bloodshed; especially if it were ours. They had me undo first my seat belt, then Bear's with my left hand. I guess they didn't trust the immense black man to have his hand so close to the shotgun's pistol grip. As soon as both of us were free from our seat belts, I was dragged out of the car by my jacket. I hit the ground hard, my head bouncing off the black top. I heard Bear hit the ground a half second before the cop's bulk crushed me to the street. I felt the cop's elbow sticking into my neck. He clamped his handcuff around my left wrist, so tight that I would have cried out; if it wasn't for not wanting to look like a bitch in front of my cuz on the other side of the car. "Put your right hand behind your back, asshole." I did as he said, and he clamped the cuff down brutally on my wrist, causing the steel to bite into my skin. He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, and sat me up against the car, and made me put my legs out in front of me, and cross them. I heard Bear receive the same treatment. "This is Kilo 4-5-4, requesting backup, and a K9 unit, possible narcotic involvement. We have a confirmed 10-32, with 2 suspects in custody." His radio chatter made no sense to me. I know he was calling for the drug dogs, and I would bet that a 10-32 had to do with the gun. They will probably tear the car apart, but they would find no drugs. I was positive about that. His radio crackled a minute later, but I couldn't understand it. The pig stood beside me, waiting for backup, and making sure that I didn't make a break for it. I sat, stone faced, trying to ignore the cold, and the fact that I was seated on the muddy ground, in February. The cop on my side of the car was shining his flashlight inside my open door, looking for anything that would further incriminate me. "I've got another gun here," he told his partner. "It looks like a Beretta. Probably a nine mil." He held the gun up by an ink pen that had been inserted through the trigger guard. It was my gun. He knew it, and I knew it. It had been placed by the side of my seat so that it was out of immediate sight, but easy to get to. "Is this yours, shitbag?" I didn't even look up at the question. I wasn't going to answer shit. That was the fucking rule. People get themselves hemmed up all the time because they snitch on their self. Fuck that shit. "I've got another on this side. Holy shit, it's a fucking Uzi pistol." I could hear the pride in that asshole's voice. He thought that he was the cop who had taken us off the street permanently. Whatever. "Are you two some kinda high rollers, or something? What's in the duffel bag in the back seat?" I heard Bear laugh. "It's your momma's fucking cunt. We would have brought the whole bitch with us, but the bitch was so fat that we couldn't roll her ass into the car. Shit, it was all that we could do to fit her huge fucking cunt into that bag." I laughed at the stupidity of the remark, and immediately saw stars fill my vision. Officer "Shitbag" had kicked me hard, right in the side of my head, knocking me over, and bouncing my head off the ground again. At least this time it was just the frozen dirt on the side of the road, instead of the asphalt. I heard Bear grunt, as the officer on the other side of the car worked him over. I heard the approach of tires, and "Shitbag" pulled me back to a seated position. It was a detective in an unmarked brown Chevy Caprice. Within twenty seconds of his arrival came the K9 van, and a crime scene tech van. I was pulled to me feet by the collar of my jacket. "Do you have any weapons on you, sir?" Oh, so I was "sir" when the detective was around. Fucking bullshit, brown nosing bastard. "I have a folding knife on my belt. It's all legal though." Officer "Shitbag" began to frisk me. He went through all my coat pockets, then felt my pants pockets. "What's this?" He pulled a tightly rolled wad of hundred dollar bills, held together by a thick rubber band. He laid it on the hood of the car. He unclipped my knife on my belt. He put my wallet, change, and everything else in my pockets onto the hood of the car, where they were collected in an evidence bag by the detective. After a thorough search of my nuts, and my ass crack, I was closed into the back seat of the squad car next to Bear. I saw the cops look in amazement as the detective opened the gym bag in the back seat. It was stuffed to bursting with cash. It had exactly $88,400 in it, in small bills. I would love to deal with nothing but fifties and hundreds, but that isn't how our dealers get their money from the fiends. "Just stay chill, Breeze. They don't really have shit. They can't pin us with anything except the guns, and you know that the Jew will tear that shit to shreds." "Yeah, cuz. I'm not sweating it." "This is your first time getting cuffed?" The huge black man looked at me with pride in his eyes. "I've never even been pulled over before." It was true. It was easy to go under cops radar when you were a halfway regular looking white boy. "You're doing real good, nigga. Keep up, Crip." He smiled hugely as he said this. "You know it, cuz." I said this calmly, but I was worried about the guns. Federal firearms charges are a five year minimum sentence, and the Uzi was full auto, which I'm sure will add another five. I was in this all the way, and there was no way out but to keep my fucking mouth shut. The K9 unit went through the car without even a hiccup. I knew that drugs were never anywhere near the money pickup cars just for this specific eventuality. The dog went back into the van, and the crime techs began slicing a long gash in the back seat upholstery. Did they really think that we were smuggling a rocket launcher inside our rear seat? These were fucking Keystone Kops. Officer "Shitbag" and his partner got back in the car, and started it up. "It looks like you boys are gonna get to know what life is like inside Jackson." Jackson State Penitentiary was the largest prison complex in Michigan, and also where they sent the hardest offenders. "How many dicks do you think that white boy will have to suck his first day in Jackson?" "Shitbag's" partner thought that he was funny, or thought that he was scaring me. I knew that my people were feared in Jackson, and that if my some off chance that the charges stuck, my reputation, and stripes would follow me there. The cops got into the car, and closed the door, and we drove away leaving the car, the guns, and the big bag of money in police custody. Bear only said one thing to me on the way to the police station, "Remember the rules, Breeze." I just nodded. They rushed us out of the car, and dragged us down a long corridor to the booking room. They took fingerprints, and our mug shots. We played nice and never resisted once. I think that those dick bags were a little disappointed. Once that was over we were whisked away to separate rooms for questioning. The room that I was in had a metal table that was bolted to the floor. It had a manacle that was welded to the table that the officer was good enough to attach to the chain running between my cuffs. At least they weren't cutting into me now, and my hands were in front of me. I sat in a metal chair, and across the table were two more metal chairs. A single boom mike hung out of reach on the ceiling, and a two way mirror took up most of one wall. So the waiting game began. I was told that they would try to sweat me by waiting; hoping that fear would build, and I would be convinced that I was getting ratted out. I knew that this wouldn't be the case. I slumped in my chair, looking as relaxed as I would have been in my own living room. It was all an act, though. Inside I was thinking about the Uzi, and the sawed off shotgun. I hope the Jew was as good as they said he was. Finally, after almost three hours of trying to take a nap in a hard steel chair; two detectives came into the room with shit eating grins on their faces. They had a large file folder that they flopped heavily on the metal table. One detective was white, and the other was black. I wondered if they were going to try and play the race card here. "So," began Blackie. "We had an interesting talk with your friend. He had a lot of things to say; especially about you." "Basically," said Whitey, "He said that all of those guns were yours, along with the money, and that you were just giving him a ride." He patted the large brown file folder. "It's all in here, his sworn statement." "It would go a lot easier if you cooperate with us," said Blackie. They seemed to not be playing good cop/bad cop. I'm not sure what they were doing. "Yeah," I said confidently, "I will definitely cooperate." Both of them leaned forward almost imperceptibly. For people who were taught how to read body language, they sure didn't bother to mask it themselves. "I will tell you everything, right after I talk to my lawyer, and he arrives." Their change in expression was comical. "I'll tell you what, white boy," Blackie said. "I'm really not feeling like going through all that hassle of lawyers, and all that bullshit. Why don't you just tell us about the money? If you don't, I'm sure that we can find a holding tank downstairs with four or five of the biggest, meanest niggas that you've ever seen." "I bet that after an hour or two of being unsupervised down there in the holding cell, this saltine will tell us everything that we want to know." Whitey said this with dead earnestness, and with absolutely no humor. "You know," he continued, "We can hold you for seventy-two hours on suspicion." "Seventy-two hours of getting ass raped, and sucking dicks is a long time, white boy." Blackie smiled. He had a gold tooth for one of his front teeth. It gleamed yellow in the greenish fluorescent lights of the interrogation room. "I want my phone call, and my lawyer. That is all I have to say to you." I said it calmly, and matter-of-factly. "Holding cells it is," said Whitey. "I hope tt you like dark meat." Both of them laughed at this apparently hysterical joke. Maybe if I was a pig, it would have been funny. They picked up the file folder, and left the room smiling. About a half an hour later, a uniform came, and led me down to the holding cells. These looked like drunk tanks, or overflow to me. They had no bunks. They had a long wooden bench that took up the three sides that didn't have the door. There were about five cells in all, and when I was brought in, some of the prisoners, all of them black, started hooting, and cat calling at me. They took me to the rowdiest cell. It had five guys in it already, and three of them were standing on the benches telling the cops to put me in there with them. "Step away from the door, you animals." The people in the cell stepped back towards the back of the cell. The cop had his nightstick out, and didn't look like he was in the mood for any bullshit. They opened the door on his signal, and I stepped inside. The door closed remotely behind me with a loud clang. "Hey, white boy," said a man with an afro that was badly in need of a trim. "What are you in for, sucking dicks?" A couple of the other guys laughed. One guy didn't crack a smile though. He was a big guy, not tall, but really muscular. He looked kind of familiar. "Yo!" the muscular man said. "Don't fuck with that guy. I know him. He is a Gangsta Mack Crip, and one of the big dogs. He could have you killed just for looking at him wrong, and nobody would ever say shit about it." The cell instantly fell silent. Fear is a strong deterrent. Everybody who was on the street knew the G.M.C., and knew that our crew was not to be fucked with. We had the rep of not only making people who fucked with us disappear, but their families as well. The single guy who was sitting on the short side of the bench cleared off, and I sat down as calm as could be. None of the other guys would make eye contact with me. I nodded to the muscular guy, letting him know that I would remember him doing this for me; and that was that. A couple of hours later a cop came in to give out bologna sandwiches. He seemed surprised to see me sitting alone, with the other guys not even looking at me. He gave out sandwiches, and the guy with the afro gave me his, and mumbled an apology. "Sorry, man. I didn't know who you was." I nodded, and took the sandwich. I had just finished my second sandwich when the uniform came back in and took me back to interrogation. There was a guy in an expensive suit standing outside the room with Blackie and Whitey. He was definitely a Jew, but he wasn't The Jew. This kind of pissed me off. We paid The Jew a shitload of money, and he sent one of his hired guns? I didn't like it, and neither would anybody else. "I will need some time to confer with my clients. I saw Bear just around the corner, his hands cuffed behind his back. Mine were cuffed in the front. I guess that they counted me as a lesser threat. I'm sure that Bear got a kick out of that. Everyone I knew stepped lightly around me, even people who didn't know me well. I gave off a vibe that savvy people recognized as dangerous, and other people just perceived as creepy. Either way, I was as dangerous as they came. I noted this down in my mental notebook for later. The uniforms led us to a conference room that supposedly wasn't bugged. The lawyer opened his briefcase, and pulled out a thing that looked like a microcassette player, but it had no tape. He switched it on. "This is just in case they are trying to listen in electronically. It defeats almost all non-military grade listening devices, and renders them useless. Now tell me exactly what happened." We told him every detail of the traffic stop. He nodded, and made no notes. "Ok, this is how it is going to go. We are going to go in there, and you aren't going to say anything. I will do all the talking. If they ask a question, and I nod just say yes. If not we will confer, and I will tell you what to say." We both nodded in agreement, and he signaled the uniform in the hallway that we were ready. The three of us sat down in the interrogation room, across from Blackie and Whitey. When Thugz Cry Ch. 01 "I am stating for the record that this conversation is being recorded, and videotaped." The lawyer nodded at Blackie saying this, as if it were a matter of course. "I have been apprised of the situation, and I am prepared to offer the following statements on behalf of my clients. My clients found the duffle bag of money at a bus stop over on Conner Avenue. They were en route to the police station to turn it in when they were pulled over. The weapons in the car must belong to the person who loaned them the car. They had no prior knowledge of them before Mr. Klein here discovered the shotgun that you have in evidence. He was surprised to find it, picked it up, and then your squad car pulled them over. You will find none of my client's prints on any of the weapons, or the shell casings; so you have absolutely nothing to tie my clients to the weapons." "The shotgun was in Mr. Klein's lap. This is bullshit!" Whitey was getting so worked up that his face had turned beet red. I secretly hoped that he stroked out right in front of all of us. "Dust them for prints." The Jew's apprentice said. "They were wearing gloves," pointed out Blackie. "It is wintertime," countered Jew Jr. "Do you two agree with all of this statement?" As if controlled by strings we both looked to the lawyer. He nodded; we both turned and said "yes" at the same time. The two detectives got up and left the room. They came back about a half hour later, and told us that they found no prints, and that we were free to go. The money was to be held for thirty days, and if no one came to claim it, we would be able to claim it, minus the taxes. The car was impounded, of course, while they searched for the owner. They would find only a paper trail that led to a dead end. The guns they kept, of course. I was going to miss my Beretta, but guns on the street are a dime a dozen when you have the right connections. So we walked out of the police station as free men, which I would have put money against a couple of hours ago. The lawyer dropped us off at one of our crack houses where one of our homies was waiting for us with another car. The endgame of all of this was that a crack head claimed a blue gym bag with $88,400 in it that he left on a bus stop bench. He claimed to have won the money betting on a horse race, and swore that he would pay the taxes at the end of the year. That crack head was paid handsomely; with crack, and we lost virtually nothing. We had new guns later that night, and we had a brand new feeling of being bulletproof when it came to the fuckery that the cops would try to throw on us. This was a very false feeling, because now Bear and I were both on the police's radar big time. It was only a matter of time until they found some crack head desperate enough to spill a little info on us, and they would know who we were connected with. This initially felt like a huge win for us, but really it was the beginning of the end. When Thugz Cry Ch. 02 All Characters Are 18+ Author's Note This work will eventually become a book. Please forgive the rough state that this probably is in. I am kind of a private person, and I would not subject Elle to proofing this. My main editor is very busy right now, and I'm not trying to take up his time with something that will be re-written half a dozen times before it is published as a real book. I am not really putting the chapters on Lit in any kind of order. I am just remembering things, and trying to write them in a cohesive format. Some things are hard to re-live, and it is also sometimes hard to change them around in a way that they would be unrecognizable to law enforcement. So for all the boys in blue out there let me state categorically that this is entirely made up. So there is my bullshit disclaimer. A nigga did learn a few things from The Jew. If you are offended by strong language or violence, read something else. Let me just tell you that the 1990's in Detroit was like the Wild, Wild West, and not like that gay ass movie with Will Smith. Anyways, enough bullshit. On to the good part. Mmm... a, child (a child) Brutally subjected to what a child should never feel His innocence was splattered on the walls as angels surrounded him A, child (a child) Placed in his small hands, shards of pain and jagged pieces of hatred He was given all the tools with which to destroy himself But, he has not Such is the beauty of resilience in a child who became a man Who intricately and deliberately breaks cycles Dismantling, everything, that hurts Handing his children the gifts, that he was once denied He told me he's trying to get his wings back My love, you can't lose your wings You simply have to remember how to use them (remember) But, fair warning, he can and will destroy you If you so much as threaten what he loves He remains a partly wounded warrior, on an honorable quest for forgiveness Shining, go, show them your heart (show them) You are exactly, who you, should be. --Eight Beginnings by Chino Xl, read by Mystic, from the album "Ricanstruction: The Black Rosary." I can remember this like it happened yesterday, which is probably why I decided to write about it. I have dreamed about it a hundred times; sometimes waking up screaming, and covered with sweat. Nightmares are the universe's way of punishing you for doing fucked up shit. Notice that I didn't say god's way. I had nightmares for years, and years, but I have finally come to grips with everything that I have done. The road that I've walked was hard, and sometimes bloody; but it made me who I am today. Everybody is the product of all their decisions, and actions. That is our own personal evolution. I had been officially part of the Gangsta Mack Crips for about three months at this point. There is something that I should explain about gangs. Gangs have initiations. Everybody knows this. These are all about showing your toughness, and proving that you aren't a pussy. The most common way is getting "jumped in." This is where a set number of gangstas beat the shit out of you, usually for a set amount of time. If you are a female, you can be "sexed in," which is where you have sex with a bunch of members of the gang. We had no females, so this was not an issue with us. You can be "blessed in," by a member of your family being in the gang, or by having already been jumped into another gang. I had been jumped into my first gang. I had hoped that I could be blessed into the G.M.C. No such luck. In the G.M.C. we were initiated in what was known as "baptism by fire." A lot of gangs call it being "blooded in." Of course as Crips, we would never say some dumb ass shit like that. The actual membership in the G.M.C. was very small. We had at one time five gangs under our umbrella, and all of these gangs jumped in. We were the few, the elite, and we ruled the streets by fear and respect. To generate that fear we had to depend on massive amounts of violence, and frequent acts of murder. To make sure that we were up to the task, we had to kill someone. That was our "baptism by fire." I am not writing about my baptism here. That is for another time. I will say this: the guy had it coming. I didn't just do a drive by on a random person; although I was present for some of these. This is about something totally different. It is about something that I learned that would change me forever, even though I didn't realize it at the time. I just told about the initiation to let it be known that I had previously killed one person, so I wasn't a virgin at it. I wasn't a murder machine, but the act wasn't a stranger, and I still slept good at night. That would change in later years, but at the time, I never thought that I would see those years. I have mentioned my nigga Bear before. He was probably as close to a friend as I had in the G.M.C. Smooth and Money were my boys from the army, but when large amounts of money are involved, it tends to wear friendships thin very quickly. If you don't believe me loan a deadbeat friend of yours ten thousand dollars. You will see what I mean. Bear and I were true homies, though. We were together for hours, and hours every day, so we talked a lot. I never tried to take money out of his pocket, nor he mine. We watched each other's backs always, and he saved my life more than once; and I saved his at least once. I guess I could just stop beating around the bush, and say that not only was this nigga my Cuz, but he was my friend. Let me explain what I did for the Gangsta Mack Crips. We were basically a drug cartel that the D.E.A. estimated at one time controlled ten percent of the cocaine traffic in the city of Detroit. You might think that ten percent isn't shit. You would be wrong. Detroit was like "Night of the Living Baseheads" (Props to P.E.). Crack was everywhere. Fiends were robbing, and stealing, and killing to get it. We made millions and millions of dollars. That money filtered down through all the neighborhood gangs who sold for us, enforced for us, and kept the squares afraid of us. I was basically their accountant and bag man. I knew exactly how much product that we had out there in the street, who had it, and how much money that they should have for me when I showed up. I also played a big part in knowing how big of a shipment that we would need, and how much our business should grow verses paying out our "profit sharing" on our initial investment. Yeah, Crip niggas have profit sharing too; at least if you were in the G.M.C. So basically I was the business guy, and Bear was my bodyguard. He kept me safe. In the beginning, people weren't afraid of me. I looked like any other square saltine cracker, which doesn't exactly strike fear into black gangstas. Bear struck plenty of fear into everyone he met. He was immense, and muscular, like that big retard from the "Green Mile." He had a huge scar that ran down one cheek to the corner of his mouth. He had confessed to me once that his mother had cut him one day when she was dusted out of her fucking mind. After a while, I think people were more afraid of me than Bear, thanks to seeming random acts of horrible violence. I could walk the street in one of the worst neighborhoods in the D, and people would move out of my way. Some would even cross the street, and nobody would look me in the eye. That is projecting true fear, and that is how that I survived in the fucked up world that I was in. I would show up at one of our crack houses, in a random pattern, and collect our money. If the niggas had our money, then everything was cool. Sometimes we would kick it with the homies for a few, and maybe even get our dicks sucked. People will do anything to keep a man with the power over life, and death in the palm of their hands happy. If the money wasn't right, and they didn't have the product, then I wanted an explanation. If I thought we were being fucked, I called in The Dogs. These niggas were our enforcers. The Dogs would make niggas talk, even if it came down to hot knives, and missing fingers, or ghetto dentistry. If the verdict came down that they were trying to fuck us, then we would find someone close to them; a parent, a girlfriend, a spouse. The Dogs killed them in horrible, agonizing ways while the person watched. It might not be just one person. Sometimes it was three or four. Only after they watched someone precious to them be brutalized and killed, were they granted the mercy of death. It was usually quick, and decisive. They had already been tortured, and their loved ones killed; what further suffering could we inflict? It was just time for their one way ticket to hell. So I collected the money, kept track of the product, and called The Dogs. That was my job. It didn't take many instances of people being tortured, and their families being executed to send a clear message: don't play with our fucking money. It was after three months of seeing people fidget nervously when I walked into their house, that the event in question happened. I think that the atmosphere of fear that we projected lulled me into a false sense of complacency. The problem with fear as a motivator is that some people have nothing to lose. They have no family or friends. They are hungry, or greedy, or stupid; and fear doesn't have the grip on them that paralyzes other people. Fear is an instinct for self-preservation. I guess the problem is that some people don't give a fuck if they live or die. I know that I didn't at the time. Bear and I frequented a liquor store on Conner Ave. This was another lesson learned; never have a pattern for anything. We randomized the houses we would collect from, and the times that we would arrive, but we went to the same liquor store every night after we dropped off the money. We even randomized where we dropped the money. But that fucking liquor store was a blind spot. We parked our car, a 1987 Camaro, and walked through the parking lot. One-Eyed-Charlie was there, as he often was. He was a drunk, and a crackhead, and homeless; but he was a friendly old guy. I walked by him, and pulled a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket, and slipped it into his hand. Bear saw me, and gave me a disapproving look. "What?" I asked as we walked through the door. "I don't know why you give that old ass nigga money; he's just going to smoke it up." Bear and I had discussed this before, but he just wouldn't let it go. "This is our hood. If he smokes it up, that money will go right back in my pocket." Bear turned, and gave me a look that clearly said, 'Nigga, please;' but he rolled his eyes, and let it go. We waved at the Arab that worked most nights, behind the bulletproof glass, and walked to the back of the store. He picked up a forty of Colt 45, and handed me a forty of O. E. We walked up to the counter to pay, and One-Eyed-Charlie ran into the store. I saw the Arab behind the counter start to say something to him, but Charlie ran right up to me, and started speaking frantically. "Breeze, there are two niggas out there behind a van, and they are fixing to rob you two. They have on ski masks, and one has a shotgun. They were just talking about shooting you niggas, and taking whatever money you had on you." This was not the kind of shit that I needed to hear tonight. I pulled a wad of cash out of my pocket that would have choked a horse, unwound a rubber band, and pulled off three crisp one hundred dollar bills, and gave them to Charlie. "Good looking out, Cuz. Now stay in here until it is safe. I looked at Mohammed, or Ali, or whatever the fuck his name was. I peeled off five Benjamin's, and laid them down on the counter. I need your security tape that is running right now." He looked at the cash on the counter, on the other side of the glass, and licked his lips nervously. Bear peeled off five hundreds from his wad, and laid them on top of mine. "We need to go out your back door, quietly." The clerk nodded. "And there were two Mexicans that came in here right before muthafuckas started shooting. Maybe they were gangbangers." He nodded again, and bent down under the counter. I heard a VCR eject a tape, and he held it up. "You guys have to go to the side," he pointed, "Over there." I saw the door that he was talking about. I picked up the stack of bills, and walked with Bear to the door. In a few seconds the clerk opened the door. Bear and I wiped our prints off the malt liquor bottles, and set them on the ground. There would be no beer tonight. The clerk handed us the tape, and I handed him the cool thousand in cash. "Put those back in the cooler, my man. Don't call the police for a few minutes. He pulled a different sort of Colt .45 from inside his jacket. The clerk's eyes grew big at this. He knew murder was about to happen, and that now he was an accessory before the fact. "Remember," Bear warned, "We were never here." We moved through the back of the store that went through the beer cooler. He shut off the emergency exit alarm, and unlocked the door. I pulled the .357 Magnum snub out of the holster that I kept on my hip. "Thanks, Cuz. We won't forget what you did here." He nodded, and he recognized it as not only a thank you, but as a veiled threat if we were caught because of him. "I wouldn't have that cash on you when the cops get here." He nodded. I pulled the blue flag that was neatly folded on my belt, and put it over my face, cowboy style. Bear nodded, and did the same with his blue bandana. We slipped out the door, one with the night, and as quiet as ninjas. The would-be-killers expected us to come out of the store from the front, and we were coming in directly behind them. We found hiding in the shadow of an old work van. They weren't even bothering to use it as cover; they were just standing there waiting for us to come out the door. Bear pointed to the one on the right, saying that I should take him. This was the one with the shotgun. He had it pointed vaguely in the direction of the front door. The problem with shotguns, or any guns for that matter, is that they are no good when they are pointed the opposite way of the people that you want to shoot. Bear aimed, and I did the same, relying on my military training. I aimed at center mass, which from my angle was the middle of his back, square between the shoulder blades. I had already cocked the hammer back before we walked out of the back door. I squeezed the trigger slightly, tightening slowly, like I was taught. The revolver boomed in the night, and the masked shotgun-toting man went down in a heap. This was followed by two crisp shots from Bear's .45. Both enemies were down before they could react. Bear's guy was making gurgling noises, but my guy was screaming. Shit never looked, or sounded like this in the movies. "Let's go, nigga!" I said to bear, and took a step toward the Camaro. "Naw, Cuz. You have to clean your plate." I was confused as to what he meant. I figure that we would bust shots, then G.T.F.O. (Get The Fuck Out.) Conner Ave. was in a bad neighborhood, but it was still a busy street. Bear walked slowly up to the one he had shot, and kicked the gun away from his hand. He took careful aim, and squeezed two more shots into his head. Cuz looked at me meaningfully, as he imparted knowledge. "Dead men tell no tales, Cuz." I only hesitated for a second. He man was screaming, and thrashing on the ground; at least his upper body was thrashing. Below where he was hit was not moving, and he smelled like he had shit himself. I must have popped that cap right through his spine. I walked up to him. The shotgun was no danger to us. The man was in agony beyond imagining. I took aim at his head, and squeezed a shot at his thrashing dome. The first shot missed, when he jerked violently. I bent down further, and the second shot flew true. His head busted like an over-ripe watermelon from the force of the .357's hollow point rounds. Brains and blood splattered across the black top, and a fine mist of blood settled on my face above the bandana. Bear clapped me on my shoulder. "You did good, Breeze. You did damn good." We walked to the Camaro like it was just another day at the office, and we had just punched out at quitting time. I guess in a way it was just another day at the office, and we had narrowly avoided punching out forever. We pulled out of the parking lot slowly, after waiting for traffic, to attract no undue attention. Bear drove, and I sat lost in thought. I had learned a few things today. Never have a pattern in anything. If you live life predictably, niggas will take advantage of that shit. I had already known, when I killed my first person, that in this shit you are either all the way in, or all the way out. I was all the way in, but I was still learning the rules of the game. There was no "how to be a gangsta handbook;" it was all on-the-job training. The second thing that I learned was to never leave any witnesses, even ones who would probably die. If that guy had lived until the cops or an ambulance had come, both of us would have landed in jail. The third thing that I had learned is that when deadly force is needed, and you have no other options, you shoot first, and hope for the best. No matter if it is broad daylight on a busy street. There are a ton of people who wouldn't tell on us because they are scared of the G.M.C. There are also a ton of people who wouldn't say anything, because they wouldn't want to get involved, or they just didn't give a fuck. Take as many precautions as you can, but when the shit hits the fan; shoot first, and preferably where your attackers have the least chance of shooting you. I felt no guilt at breaking the old west gunfighter's rule about shooting people in the back. I was alive, and those niggas were dead. That was the bottom line. Bear dropped me at my car at about 4 a.m. I had wiped the blood off my face, but I couldn't quite put the guy's blood curdling screams of pain out of my mind. I drove home, bumping my cassette of the D.O.C.'s "It's Funky Enough." I had learned things today that I would use in the next year. They were things that wouldn't help me sleep at night; but they would keep me out of jail, and keep me from taking the "big sleep."